Headache
by Nothingatall11
Summary: There are eleven reasons why Arthur is having a really bad day, and one reason why it ends quite nicely.


**I was in a really bad mood this afternoon, so I figured I should use it in a fic. And for some reason, whenever I'm in weird moods, I write Merlin/Arthur. Interesting.**

**Anyway, enjoy?**

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><p>Arthur knows that he can be an arrogant prat, and most of the time he's fine with that. (If people can't handle that, what should he care? He's the freaking <em>prince <em>for god sake.) But there are days when even he is sick of himself. It starts with a bad headache when he wakes up, probably from the blow Gwaine managed to sneak under his shield during sparring the day before. The good thing about strong willed knights like Gwaine and Lancelot is the fact that they never go easy on you, even if you're a prince. This, coincidentally, is also the bad thing about them.

The second thing is that it's porridge for breakfast, which Arthur fucking hates. It looks like dirt, tastes like dirt and is probably made of it as well. The third thing is that his boots are falling apart at the seams, causing him to fall on his ass no more than _three _times during the morning obstacle course. And Lancelot has the nerve to laugh, the git.

During Lunch (Freaking asparagus _come on) _he figures that it's all Merlins fault. Because the stupid servant has taken the morning off to go see some girl. Like that's a plausible reason! Arthur would never abandon his duties - Okay fine he would and he has but as mentioned before, he's the fucking prince so he gets to do that kind of stuff. Anyway, if Merlin had been here there would have be no asparagus(he would have made him go get him something from the tavern) broken boots (he would have demanded to borrow Merlins for the day) Porrige (He's thrown enough bowls of that vile substenance in Merlins face so he's got the message) and just because he can't come up with a reason why his headache is Merlins fault, doesn't mean that there isn't one.

The fourth thing is seeing Gwen. He knows he fucked things up with her, and it still hurts when he sees her some days, but he's over that, really.

When she sits down next to Lancelot and laughs loudly at his lame attempts to joke, that's the fifth thing and it's a really major thing, so Arthur figures it's time to flee. It's never that easy however (of bloody course) and Gwen stands up as he walks past.

"Hey, are you okay? You look tired-"

"Yes I am bloody fine thank you Guinevere, now haven't you got some beds to make or something? Unless you have some business with my knights I suggest you go back to work." His voice starts as a snarl and ends as a command, sounding nothing like a friend to another and very much like a noble to a lowly servant. Her question was innocent, caring even, and he feels terrible the moment he realizes what he's said. His stupid pride prevents him from apologizing however, and his gut tells him that he's still way to pissed to soften his expression. He settles for getting out of there before he says something even worse, (or Lancelot punches him in the face) and leaves a very hurt Gwen behind.

"_Fuck fuck fuck_ " he murmurs into the nearest wall, if he hadn't blown all his chances with her before him most certainly has now. He stands with his forehead against the cold stone for a while, cursing the entire bloody world, before he hears footsteps and has to pull himself together.

The sixth thing is having to sit through an impossibly boring dinner with some lord from a neighboring country that was too small to be significant but too strategically placed to be ignored. The lord was ancient, and found nothing more interesting than birds. After 20 minutes listening to him go on about the swans nesting in his duck pond, Arthur Zones out and angsts over the fact that this is something he will have to do for the rest of his life. When he's not risking his life for his country, of course. Which always gives him a seizing feeling around his lungs followed by nausea and and the panic that usually comes with claustrophobia. The Lord doesn't notice, thank god, too preoccupied with his swan-story, so Arthur takes a swing of his wineglass and smiles sheepishly.

The seventh thing is mentioning that his favorite food is chicken within earshot of the lord. Everything goes kind of batshit after that and Uther gives him his best "I'm disappointed in you, son"- look. Arthur drinks some more whine, gets a little drunk and even more pissed off, and goes back to his quarters, intending to wallow in self pity for the rest of the evening.

The eight' thing is that he isn't allowed to be alone for said self-wallowing. Because Merlin is back, whistling an annoyingly cheerful tune as he changes the sheets of Arthur's bed, depraving him of the pleasure of throwing himself dramatically on the covers, sighing about the unfairness of his life. Instead he has to hover a little awkwardly halfway to the nearest chair, having changed his mind about sitting when he found that he lacked the precision required for landing on the chair and not the floor.

"You look happy" He mumbles to Merlin while swaying a little on the spot.

"Yeah, I had a really nice day!" Merlin smiles without even looking up. Bastard.

"Laurens father has got this really nice house down by the river," He continues, "and Lauren had made these really awesome pies that were made of spinach and _goat milk_! Can you believe- "

"I'm sure Laurie or whatever makes excellent cooking maybe you should get married and have lots of goat babies." Great, now even his insult sucks. That has got to be number nine. Or ten, the Laurie girl was definitely number ten. Not that she deserved such a good number. Bitch.

"Her name is Lauren and _what is up with you today?" _ Merlin frowns and finally turns to look at him. _At least I got him to stop the bloody whistling_ Arthur thinks and ignores the pang of guilt from somewhere in his realizes that he's just been waiting for someone to ask that the entire day, he's even been thinking about what he'd answer. Trouble is, now that someone does, he just finds himself pissed at the fact that nobody has done so sooner.

"None of your fucking business, Merlin. Just get out. And take your stupid sheets with you. Run back to your little bitch-"

The eleventh thing is that Merlin punches him in the face, and it freaking _hurts_. For a servant he packs a good punch, that's for sure.

"What the- MERLIN!" Arthur exclaims from the floor, managing to sober up a little. His nose is bleeding and will probably be twice the size in the morning. "What the hell was that for!" Merlin just smiles.

"That's more like it." He says and offers Arthur his hand. Still a bit woozy from the alcohol and punch-in-the-face, he allows himself to be led away and sat down on his bed. Merlin climbs up behind him and suddenly there are long pale fingers in his hair.

"Wha-" He starts but Merlin huffs him quiet.

"It's called head massage. You are more of a twat than usual when you have a headache, and this helps. So shut up and relax, idiot. "

He does, slowly, realizing that there is a lot of tension to begin with, and as he lets go of it little by little, leaning carefully against the man behind him, the anger and self pity dies away and leaves room for guilt and self loathing.

"..I've been an idiot all day" He mumbles to nobody in particular. Merlin just hums in agreement. His finger finds its way to Arthur's temples and back behind his ears before reaching his neck and carefully pulling his hair upward as they move back in circling motions. He really is quite good with his hands, Arthur thinks as he leans back into the touch. Arthur revels in the feel of the chills that run down his spine as a comfortable silence settles in the room.

"Sorry." He says after a while, feeling like he should give something back, because damn this is _divine._ Merlin laughs and grabs Arthurs hair and _pulls_ a little and that sensation is a little too weird for Arthurs drunken brain to understand so he just makes an unintelligible sound that spouts another laugh from his servant.

"Don't make me hit you again, prat. "

"Hey, I was being nice!"

"Exactly. The great "Prince Arthur" doesn't do nice. Now shut up and be grateful."

When he falls asleep that night, Arthur feels more comfortable with his own identity than he has probably ever been. Why? Because now he knows that whenever he loses sight of who he is and what he stands for, there is an awkward servant with ridiculous ears ready to punch some sense into his thick skull. And that's a comforting thought.


End file.
